


Pt 4 - In Which Much Is Revealed

by Elaur



Series: The Past Is A Living Thing [4]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elaur/pseuds/Elaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Rocco's death by Pappa Joe. The boys and Da are hiding out and trying to get to know each other. Da tells them a tale…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lots and LOTS of angst...

Connor stared at himself in the mirror of the posh "powder room," feeling the subsonic rumble of the inevitable landslide that would commence that night, knowing he had no control over it. He gripped the sides of the sink and took a deep, trembling breath.

Murphy had come up with the bright idea of getting their Da drunk and picking his brain regarding their past, more from something to do to keep his mind off Rocco than really wanting to know, Connor realized. He could hardly tell Murphy no, as it would bring up questions that he was unwilling to answer. It was better if he pretended ignorance and played along.

Oh what a tangled web we weave, he thought dismally. Murphy was gonna skin him alive when he found out Connor had known for months. Or never speak to him again. He preferred the beating.

Ever since Agent Smecker had hidden the three of them here in his sister's Cambridge condo three days ago, Da had said barely two words to either of them, and those consisted of the "pass the salt" variety. The twins had no idea how to break the ice, intimidated as they were by his stares and silence.

From the moment Il Duce had laid his hand on him, Connor knew. The older man had put his hands on their chins and stared at each of them, and then lifted Connor's face a bit higher, and looked at him a bit more intently.

He knows that I am not his son.

"We who are about to die, salute you," Connor said to his reflection, rather seriously. He sketched a salute and turned on his heel to face the hangman with a smile.

~~~

Getting Da drunk had evolved into an elaborate Murphy dinner: grilled steak, baked potatoes and a giant Caesar salad. Dessert was baked caramelized pears. And whisky. Lots of whisky.

Da lit a cigar after Connor had cleared away the dishes. He'd offered one to each of them, but they declined, preferring cigarettes instead. Murphy poured him more whisky.

"That was very nice, Murphy, thank you," Da told him, nodding in his direction.

"My pleasure, Da. Glad ye enjoyed it." Connor stared at Murphy in fascination as he grinned shyly and blushed with pleasure at the heartfelt compliment.

"Cheers, then," Connor said, and lifted his glass. The two men joined him in downing the contents of their glasses. Murphy poured another round.

"So Da, maybe we'll have it out of you then, since Ma would never say," Murphy blurted, reckless from whisky and compliments. He winked at Connor, who bit the inside of his cheek. No better way to break the ice, he supposed.

Da eyed him suspiciously. "What's that, then?"

"Who came out first? Me or Connor?"

Da pulled a heavy crystal ashtray closer and tapped his cigar against it.

"I can't tell you either, I'm afraid," he said slowly.

Connor and Murphy stared at each other, disappointment evident in their faces.

But Da wasn't finished. "Not that I don't want you to know, y'see. But it's that I was unconscious at the time, so I have no memory of you two being born at all."

"Unconscious?" Connor asked with trepidation.

Instead of answering, Da pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. He took a sip of whisky and set the glass down, turning it so that the refracted light from the cut crystal kaleidoscoped on the white linen tablecloth.

"Yer Ma never told ya?" Da asked, already knowing the answer.

"She never spoke of you at all, except when she was angry at us," Murphy whispered.

Da barked a laugh that startled the twins into jerking in their seats. "Janet was always one for melodrama, she was. Blasted woman. God rest 'er." He picked up the glass and downed the contents. Connor had told him earlier about her death a few months before, and had gotten only a curt nod in return, leaving him more confused and uncertain.

"Well, then, what do ye know, so I know where to begin?"

The twins looked at each other and smiled a bit. "What little we know, we learned from Old Mrs. Brody."

Da snorted. "I remember her. Queen of the Gossips, that one. What'd she tell ya then?"

"That you and Ma met at university in Dublin, got married, and when ye went away to Belfast to fight the English she followed. Two years later ye both come back with us. And then ye left for good."

"Aye. Well at least she didn't make up lies." He puffed on his cigar and looked up at the ceiling, silent for long moments, plainly remembering.

Neither Connor nor Murphy dared breath, lest they break the spell. They could smell it in the air; they knew well the beginnings of a tale.

~~~

Patrick Macmanus had never seen a lovelier girl. Not that she was extraordinarily pretty in the face, nor had a siren's body, but she shone with a blazing light. Her eyes glinted like blue diamonds and her smile was deadly. She wasn't exceedingly tall, but she was stately, well turned-out but not prissy, well educated and intelligent, but not a scholarly snob.

Patrick's favorite pastime was watching Janet Marie Cowan destroy some cretinous bloke's self-esteem with a few well-chosen words, or in several different languages. All his mates were terrified of her, calling her Amazon Woman, and avoided her like the plague, which was, most likely, her intention. In actuality, Janet Marie Cowan was not above hanging about with her pals getting pissed at the local pub, nor leaving them to go home with whomever she found worthy of her attentions that night. It was, after all, 1969, and the height of the Free Love Era.

Patrick himself was neither tall nor short, not terribly good-looking, but certainly not ugly. He was charming and funny, and had many friends. He was blessed with a sharp intelligence coupled with a street urchin's common sense. He tended to wear his hair long and shaggy, with a matching beard, earning him the nickname of Ché Guevara, whom he admired. His own studies in Economics and Political Science drew him toward public service and his youth and idealism gave him confidence in his ability to change things. What he needed was a strong woman in partnership with him to help him further his ambitions.

After spending an entire semester watching Janet Marie Cowan, Patrick finally made his proposal. It earned him a powerful slap across the face, right in front of the steps to the Humanities College. He was undeterred in his pursuit, and was content to soon see a spark of respect in her eyes.

Coffees turned into dinners, which turned into hours long conversations in her flat, fueled by alcohol and cigarettes, which turned into his moving in, and all that came with it. It was a perfect meeting of minds and flesh and Patrick knew he had chosen well.

She had only two requirements, and they were not up for discussion: she would finish school, get her MA in Languages and European Studies, and they would go back to her hometown to get married. Patrick agreed; he would have moved heaven and earth to get her whatever she required.

That June of 1970, she wore the pearl earrings and wedding band he'd bought her, proudly and with grace. Filled with excitement over plans for the future, they spent hours talking, drinking, and making love in their new home. He began eyeing the local council; she was hired on to teach languages at the local secondary school that fall.

Neither one could have dreamed how watching a seemingly innocuous news program would change both their lives forever.

~~~

 

"It was the Provos, aye?" Murphy asked. "You went to join them."

"Aye. Janet and I were watching the telly and there was news of the riots over the curfews and the lockdown of the city. The Provos started bombin' the soldiers and the Ulstermen started bombin' the Catholics. I knew I had to be there."

There was silence once more. But this time, neither twin interrupted.

"So I went," Da blurted suddenly.

Murphy made as if to speak, and Connor put his hand on his forearm to stop him.

"Stubborn woman that your Ma was, she followed. Told me it was for my own good. That she'd keep me outta trouble. Christ, I shoulda chained her to the bed. Things would surely have been different if she'd stayed home safe with her sisters." Da sighed and motioned Murphy to pour him another shot of whisky.

"We stayed up in Derry in the flat of a friend I'd known at university. That's where we met William."

If Connor hadn't known what to look for, he would have missed it: A tiny flicker of Da's eyes in his direction.

"Who's that, then?" Murphy asked. Connor tensed and held his breath, his mind whirling.

Da chuckled mirthlessly. "A madman and a rake. A self-proclaimed Bohemian with no morals whatsoever, who wrote terrible poetry and painted worse pictures. Yer Ma loved him."

Murphy looked at Connor wide-eyed, and Connor knew what he was thinking. Ma loved such a character? Are we talking about the same woman?

Da caught the look and chuckled this time with real humor. "Oh, aye, I suspect she changed quite a bit since then."

"So this William character…?" Murphy prodded.

But Da was not one to be rushed in the telling of a tale. He found his cigar had gone out, so he re-lighted it with a match, disdaining the lighter, puffing slowly. Connor was frozen with suspense, but not as he would have been as a child, listening to one of his Auntie's ghost stories. There were revelations to be made.

"William." Da puffed some more. "William had the charm of the Devil himself."

Murphy snorted with laughter. "That's what Ma always said about Connor!"

"Did she now?" Da asked, and looked at Connor curiously, and Connor felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Well, William could charm the birds out of the trees to give themselves over to hungry cats, to be sure. Tall and blond, beautiful he was, with a wicked smile. I'd thought I'd seen much in life, but I'd never met a man like him. The women all fancied themselves in love with him. Even the men followed him around like love-sick cows... The Provos thought of him as God's gift since there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for them."

~~~

Patrick and William tended to end up arguing long into the night about the pros and cons of violent retribution and peaceful demonstrations, almost coming to blows several times, but Janet would stop it in time. If telling them to shut the fuck up she was trying to sleep didn't work, she'd lure them both into bed with her.

Patrick would wake from those particular nights guilt-ridden and vaguely disgusted with himself. He had never been someone with strict, old-fashioned sexual mores, but sharing his bed, and his wife with another man, and finding his pleasure in watching… how did William convince him to do it? Was it that Janet wanted it just as much and it was she he was giving in to? What was it that kept him from saying "NO"? Was he that weak?

Soon enough, he was given plenty of time to think about it. In August of 1971, the IRA started bombing everyone, and in retaliation, the Prime Minister declared Internment, giving the government powers to detain suspected IRA members indefinitely without trial. Patrick was one of the 342 men arrested and held without cause. The beatings and psychological torture he received were almost beyond him. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on one's point of view, Patrick knew very little about the comings and goings of the IRA. He was released with no explanation and taken back to the flat by Janet, who sobbed over him as she cared for his wounds.

William came to visit him the next day. He sat in a chair by the bed in a white-hot rage and asked him about his ordeal, looked at his cuts and welts and bruises, then laid a hand on his forehead, probably the only part that didn't hurt too badly.

"Patrick, my love. We know ye didn't talk. Ye shall be avenged," William told him quietly.

It was much later that he found out William had staged some of the bloodier violence that spread through the city. It pained Patrick deeply that many had lost their lives because William was angry at what had been done to him.

But for a short time, Patrick was content. While William was off blowing up tanks and Ulstermen, he was alone with his wife who had discovered she was carrying a child.

"I promise ya, my Janet, our child will be safe from all this," he whispered to her, a gentle hand on her swelling belly.

Soon enough, a few people from the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association turned up at their flat, wanting him to be part of a civil rights demonstration they were planning in January of the next year. It was a peaceful demonstration and they asked Patrick to tell his comrades in the IRA and Provos to stay away. They didn't want any trouble.

The country was being torn apart by random violence while no one was taking aim at the people who issued the orders. He was sickened by the needlessness of his comrades' actions. Patrick agreed to talk to the Provos, and convince William that this violence had to stop. In fact, he would have William join him in the civil rights march. That would show him the power of peaceful assembly.

~~~


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?  
And where have you been, my darling young one?  
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,  
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,  
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,  
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,  
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,  
It's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,  
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

What did you hear, my blue-eyed son?  
And what did you hear, my darling young one?  
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin',  
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,  
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',  
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',  
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',  
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,  
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,  
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

~Bob Dylan, A Hard Rain

 

"I needn't tell you what happened that day," Da said, tapping the ash from his cigar into the expensive crystal ashtray.

"Bloody Sunday," Murphy whispered, staring sightlessly at the empty glass he held in a two-handed grip.

Connor spoke for the first time since the tale began. "I take it that William didn't take too kindly of your convincing him about the power of peaceful demonstration?"

Da looked over at him, and Connor's throat tightened at the deep sadness in the older man's dark eyes. "I'm afraid William never had a chance to tell me anything. I would have given much to have him tell me I was a useless cunt, or even beat me bloody. It would have saved me much grief and guilt."

The tears came startlingly quick to Connor's eyes, not even giving him the usual sting of warning. He got up abruptly and left the table, practically running for the tiny toilet and slamming the door shut.

He could hear Murphy calling his name on the other side, but the pain was too intense to pay any attention to anything else. He sat on the toilet seat and hugged himself, a soft, high-pitched keening coming unknowingly from his throat.

How the fuck do you grieve for a stranger, a father, you met and lost in the span of a few moments?

And how would he explain his reaction to Murphy? Connor was sure Murph was mad with worry about him getting so upset over some long deceased bloke they didn't even know.

The pounding on the door had stopped. From Da's quiet rumble, he assumed Da was telling Murphy to leave him alone.

Replaying everything Da had told him about William, he found a bit of comfort. If Connor was certain of anything at the moment, it was that Da had loved his father, and his father had loved him back.

After a bit, Connor felt he could join them without falling apart. He splashed water on his face to cool it, but he couldn't do anything about his red-rimmed eyes.

Murphy sat at the table, his eyes filled with questions, but he stayed silent. Da stood gazing out the window at the quiet street outside. Connor avoided Murphy's eyes and reached for the whisky bottle. A bit of liquid courage, as Ma used to say. As he poured, he thought he understood why she used to say such things.

Da turned from the window and Connor could feel his eyes boring into him. "Do ye want to hear the rest?" he asked.

"Aye," Connor croaked. "Tell us everything."

~~~

Patrick and William had row after terrible row about the march scheduled for the end of January, and even Janet had a hard time calming them down, eventually leaving them to resolve it on their own. In the end, William had agreed to come because he loved Patrick, not because he believed it would make a damn bit of difference.

Patrick was elated that cold winters day, with his best mate at his side. They were ten thousand strong, marching from Creggan toward the center of Derry, carrying placards and bed sheets painted with slogans, strung between poles, singing and chanting. But his good mood fell apart quickly when the organizers saw that the military had closed off Guildhall Square, their destination. It was then that Patrick was glad he'd insisted Janet stay home. She was seven months along and huge, and he had worried about the press of people doing her an injury.

The marchers were rerouted but some in the crowd got angry, with several youths staying to taunt the paratroopers, yelling and throwing stones. Patrick and William decided to get the youths away from the soldiers before they started any trouble, but William's temper got the best of him at the sight of the guns pointed at the boys. The soldiers threatened to arrest him and he asked them what for, since he was a free man and within his rights to walk on the streets.

That was the last thing Patrick remembered.

His next conscious memory was of the nurse bending over him, changing his intravenous bottle. No one would tell him anything, and no one had heard anything from Janet.

Finally, after harassing the nurses and anyone who walked by, a doctor was sent. But even he did not have much information.

"You were shot at the demonstration. Nasty one too. Almost lost you."

Patrick was incredulous. "They opened fire? On unarmed people?"

"Aye. Well, that's what the hullabaloo is about, isn't it? They're calling it another Bloody Sunday."

"How many? How many dead?" Patrick croaked, clutching at the sheet.

"Thirteen dead," the doctor told him. "About the same injured. You're one of the injured, obviously." The doctor later brought him a newspaper with the list of dead and injured. His name was on it, as he expected. So was William's, as he expected as well, but on the side of the dead.

For the first time in his life, Patrick wished he were dead. How could he have lived, and William had not? It had been Patrick's fault in the first place that William had even been there…

He thanked the nurse that brought him his morphine injection, not because it stopped the pain of his body, but it brought relief from the agony in his heart and mind.

He woke up to see wee Jack, one of the Provo's young runners, sitting by his bed.

"Nice to see yer still wi' the living," Jack said, a nervous smile on his face.

"Aye? Well, I can't say the same, I'm sure," Patrick muttered, turning his head away to hide the sudden tears that seemed to attack him at random moments.

Jack blinked several times in succession and cleared his throat, but said nothing.

After composing himself, Patrick turned to stare at the slender red-head. "Well? What is it, man? I don't think you've come to hear about the state of my bowels."

"Well," Jack said loudly, then coughed. "I mean. It's about Janet."

Patrick froze and narrowed his eyes at the boy, who promptly paled considerably. "What about Janet? Why hasn't she been here to see me? She's not hurt, is she?"

"Ah, well, yes-I mean no! She's alright now. It's just that the babies came early, aye?"

It took Patrick a while to digest this answer. First was that she was all right, even if she couldn't come to him. Second, she'd delivered early. Third…

"Babies?" Patrick asked, stunned.

"Aye! Two wee boys. Two sons in one get-go. Can you imagine it, man?"

"No, no I can't," Patrick answered rather breathlessly. "And they're alright?"

Jack's face fell a bit. "Well, one of the wee ones had a bit o' trouble. Needed blood or somesuch. But he's fine now."

"And Janet?"

"Aye, well, like I said, she's fine now, although for a bit there…" Jack looked pleadingly at Patrick. "She lost a lot of blood herself. Some people came to tell her you and William had been shot, and she went fair daft, like. She thought she'd lost the both of ye." Jake looked down at his wringing hands. "It took three of us to keep her throwin' herself in the river. Only when she'd tired enough to hear us tellin' her to think of the baby, did she stop. But by then, well, the pains had started."

Patrick stared at Jack, unable to form words while the tears gathered in his eyes. "Does she…know?" he managed to finally ask.

"Aye, she knows now that William's…gone, and that you are still here."

~~~

"Tiny things ye were," Da said, almost affectionately. "I could fit one of ye in my hand." He held up his big paw, palm cupped upward, to demonstrate.

"Who was it, Da? Which one of us was almost lost?" Murphy asked, an odd expression on his face.

Da looked at Connor and pointed with a thumb. "This wee one here. Something went wrong in the birthin'. Something came undone that shouldn't have, and there was a lot of blood. The doctors explained it to me but I've forgotten." He smiled grimly. "They had to do a transfusion on ye. But that wasn't the end of it, aye? Because of this, Janet lost a lot of blood as well, and the only way they could stop the bleedin' and save her life was to take out her womb."

Connor stared at Da with blank shock, while Murphy's quiet "Jesus" spoke for them both.

"We left Derry as soon as we could, back to Kildare where Janet's sisters could help care for us both. I still had to use crutches for a while, although I wasn't having to shit in a bag anymore." Da grimaced. "Don't recommend it. It's awfully embarrassing and inconvenient."

The twins stared at each other, oblivious to the older man's attempt at lightening the grimness of his story.

Connor was still looking at Murphy when he asked the million-dollar question, so softly that he didn't think anyone had heard him.

"Why did you leave us, Da?"

Da thoroughly crushed the end of the cigar stub and sighed deeply. "To keep you safe," he answered, just as softly.

Of all the possible answers he'd expected, that had not been one of them. Murphy shook his head in disbelief as well.

The older man sat back and folded his hands in front of him. "You've noticed that the Provos aren't exactly ethical blokes?"

"Aye?" was Connor's skeptical answer.

"Well, they wanted me back, didn't they? They'd lost one of their best soldiers--William, o' course--and since I had been his best mate, I would know where all his arms caches were, plus a hell of a lot of money he'd hidden, wouldn't I? Not that me telling them I didn't would make a bit o' difference. Their catching me wasn't a problem, see, had I been alone. But I had Janet and you wee boys to think of now. And I had no doubt they'd use you to unfair advantage."

Da rubbed his forehead hard. "Forgive me, boys, all this rememberin' has pained me, and the whisky has made me maudlin. I'll see ye in the morning. Good-night, lads."

"G'night, Da," Murphy said, standing up as he passed by. Connor could tell that Murph wanted to hug his father, give him some comfort, but the older man didn't look at him at all and swept on by. Murphy looked dejected and Connor moved toward him and enfolded his twin in his embrace.

Murphy tightened his arms around Connor's back and pressed his face into Connor's neck, muffling a sob. In that moment, his brother's need overshadowed his own turmoil. His own arms tightened around his twin and he pressed his lips against Murphy's dark hair.

He knew what Murphy was thinking about, since he'd thought the same thing when Da had admitted to his own guilt for bringing William with him on the march. His own words came back to haunt him.

"You brought him in, let him take care of himself!"

"It's not your fault, Murph. Roc wouldn't let us say no to him. It's not your fault…"

Murphy clutched at Connor's shirt and shook with repressed sobs.

"Don't worry, Murphy. Brother. I'm here for ya, no matter what."

~~~

List of the dead on January 30, 1972, Londonderry, Northern Ireland

Patrick ('Paddy') Doherty, 31 years   
Gerald Donaghy, 17 years  
John ('Jackie') Duddy, 17 years   
Hugh Gilmour, 17 years   
Michael Kelly, 17 years   
Michael McDaid, 20 years  
Kevin McElhinney, 17 years   
Bernard ('Barney') McGuigan, 41 years   
Gerald McKinney, 35 years  
William McKinney, 26 years   
William Nash, 19 years  
James ('Jim') Wray, 22 years  
John Young, 17 years  
John Johnston, 59 years (died of complications from his wounds five months later)


	3. Chapter 3

Connor stood in the kitchen doorway, contemplating stepping in, when Da turned to look at him.

"Havin' trouble sleepin' as well?" he asked. "I'll add more milk here for ya. This'll put you right out."

The older man had been stirring a pot on the stove, the light above the only illumination in the cavernous room.

Connor sat at the breakfast bar and the silence stretched. Da poured the steaming milk into two glasses and sat next to Connor, passing him one.

Connor looked at the glass in surprise after a sip. "Has nutmeg in it."

"Aye, your Ma used to make it for me when I couldn't sleep. Happened often enough."

"She did for us as well." Connor's eyes started to sting and he rubbed them vigorously, surprised how the forgotten, yet familiar taste of the warm spiced milk overwhelmed him with emotion. Stop, he told himself resolutely.

He didn't want to think about Ma; what she had been like as a young woman-the way Da had described her-and the sad, bitter woman she had become. It wasn't the first time, nor did he think it would be the last, that he wondered if she would have been happier without the two hellcat sons she'd had to raise on her own.

He sipped again from the glass and felt Da's eyes on him. Should he bring up William or let the older man broach the subject?

Connor decided he should be the one. He took a breath to speak and found he couldn't. He covered his mouth with his hand and closed his eyes tightly, his brow furrowed with indecision. Did he really want to know after all? What difference would it make in the long run, other than to bring up obviously painful memories for Da, and cause more pain for himself?

The silence was deafening and the hum of the refrigerator cycling on was a welcome distraction.

"How long have ya known?" Da asked abruptly, shattering Connor's intentions.

He couldn't respond for long moments and unconsciously rubbed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to control his whirling thoughts.

"Since right after ma-died," he finally choked out. "I found a photo of the three of ya in her Bible. Didn't know who was who at the time though."

Da nodded. "She loved that picture."

"You all looked happy."

"Aye," Da said, his voice rough. He tugged at his beard, and Connor turned his head away to give him privacy.

They sipped hot milk for a few silent moments.

"Does Murphy know?" Da asked. Connor could only shake is head, unable to even attempt that train of thought and all the guilt it brought up.

"I burned it," was all he could manage. Da nodded as if he understood. And who knew, maybe he did.

"Placenta praevia, was it?" Connor asked, changing the subject as far away from Murphy as possible.

Da stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"What happened at my birth. Why Ma lost her womb."

Da frowned in concentration and rubbed his bottom lip with his middle finger, something Murphy did all the time. It gave Connor an odd sense of loss, something he was no longer part of.

"Per'aps that's the technical term," he said finally. "I'm not good at those sorts o' things. And it was a while ago…"

~~~  
Patrick's dreams could no longer be kept at bay with the drugs. His last conversation with the doctors had shredded that flimsy veil of protection he had counted on.

He woke up suddenly, heart pounding, breath choking in his throat, with William's screams echoing in his mind, at counterpoint with the screams of a tiny child. He shut his eyes tightly, willing that blood-covered, accusing face from his mind's eye.

As his heartbeat finally slowed, he opened his eyes and realized that Janet sat next to his hospital bed. They stared at each other silently for long moments.

"Ye look like shite," Janet finally said.

"Oh aye?" Patrick replied, looking at her sallow skin, the dark circles under her eyes, and the golden hair turned to straw. "Well, you don't look like Miss America yerself."

"I s'pose not, since I mostly feel like Miss Cowpat."

Patrick grunted. "Tell me about my wee boys, then. Are they doin' well?"

He feared for a moment, watching Janet's eyes suddenly well up and spill over with tears. "Oh Patrick! They are so beautiful!" She pulled a handkerchief from her bed gown sleeve and wiped her eyes. "Pardon. I weep for no good reason lately."

Patrick reached over and clasped her wrist. "Ye have every reason to weep, my love. For good and ill."

As he thought it would, the floodgates opened and Janet wept without pause until a nurse came to help calm her.

"Did the doctors tell you about-about wee Connor?" she asked, finally able to speak.

"Aye," he answered roughly, turning his head away. He was still uncertain how he felt about what he'd been told. Janet pressed the soggy handkerchief against her mouth to stifle any more sobs.

The doctors had been confused, assuming that the tiny preemie would have either his mother's or his father's blood type. But he'd had neither. Luckily, they'd not assumed to the point of actually giving the child the wrong blood. But it had been a close call, and the child had hovered between life and death for several hours.

The other twin had screamed ceaselessly until one of the older nurses put him in the isolette with his brother. The screaming stopped immediately and the other had improved dramatically within the half hour.

"Connor's a wee miracle, the doctors say. He's a strong fighter. But…but I think Murphy is what's kept him from giving up. They love each other so already! You should see them, Patrick. How they hold onto each other when they sleep and cry when they're separated."

Patrick heard her words, but a sudden wave of guilt made them meaningless. Guilt at William's death, at Connor's existence, at Janet's loss of any future children. He kept his face turned away; unable to face what he feared would be an accusatory stare.

"Patrick…?" Janet said, gripping his hand and nearly in tears again. "My love, please. You know he's all we have left of William."

"Aye," Patrick said. "But will he end up being a gift, or punishment for our sins, Janet? Because the child has already given ye more than enough grief."

Janet looked at him, horrified. "Every child is a blessing, Patrick. And I'll not-not be able to give ye any more!" With this declaration, she broke down again.

"Aye, a blessing," Patrick echoed, thinking of his own mother's words: "The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree."

~~~

"I had a hard time of it at first, accepting that you were William's son and not my own. Until your Ma first put ye in my arms."

Connor could not have torn his gaze away from the older man's face if someone had put a gun to his head. A tender smile stretched Da's lips as he gazed fondly at Connor.

"So tiny ye were, almost lost in the swaddling. But ye looked up at me with William's fierce blue eyes, and grabbed my little finger in a terrible strong grip like ye were tellin' me that you were my son as well, no doubt about it, whether I liked it or no."

Connor stopped breathing when the older man reached out and caressed the side of his face. "So much like him, ye are," he whispered. "And I'm glad of it." Connor crumpled and Da pressed Connor's face against his shoulder.

"Weep, my son. Mourn him, as I have," Da crooned, caressing his hair. "For your father was a good man, all in all, though he was a madman as well."

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

Connor stood in the kitchen doorway, contemplating stepping in, when Da turned to look at him.

"Havin' trouble sleepin' as well?" he asked. "I'll add more milk here for ya. This'll put you right out."

The older man had been stirring a pot on the stove, the light above the only illumination in the cavernous room.

Connor sat at the breakfast bar and the silence stretched. Da poured the steaming milk into two glasses and sat next to Connor, passing him one.

Connor looked at the glass in surprise after a sip. "Has nutmeg in it."

"Aye, your Ma used to make it for me when I couldn't sleep. Happened often enough."

"She did for us as well." Connor's eyes started to sting and he rubbed them vigorously, surprised how the forgotten, yet familiar taste of the warm spiced milk overwhelmed him with emotion. Stop, he told himself resolutely.

He didn't want to think about Ma; what she had been like as a young woman-the way Da had described her-and the sad, bitter woman she had become. It wasn't the first time, nor did he think it would be the last, that he wondered if she would have been happier without the two hellcat sons she'd had to raise on her own.

He sipped again from the glass and felt Da's eyes on him. Should he bring up William or let the older man broach the subject?

Connor decided he should be the one. He took a breath to speak and found he couldn't. He covered his mouth with his hand and closed his eyes tightly, his brow furrowed with indecision. Did he really want to know after all? What difference would it make in the long run, other than to bring up obviously painful memories for Da, and cause more pain for himself?

The silence was deafening and the hum of the refrigerator cycling on was a welcome distraction.

"How long have ya known?" Da asked abruptly, shattering Connor's intentions.

He couldn't respond for long moments and unconsciously rubbed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to control his whirling thoughts.

"Since right after ma-died," he finally choked out. "I found a photo of the three of ya in her Bible. Didn't know who was who at the time though."

Da nodded. "She loved that picture."

"You all looked happy."

"Aye," Da said, his voice rough. He tugged at his beard, and Connor turned his head away to give him privacy.

They sipped hot milk for a few silent moments.

"Does Murphy know?" Da asked. Connor could only shake is head, unable to even attempt that train of thought and all the guilt it brought up.

"I burned it," was all he could manage. Da nodded as if he understood. And who knew, maybe he did.

"Placenta praevia, was it?" Connor asked, changing the subject as far away from Murphy as possible.

Da stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"What happened at my birth. Why Ma lost her womb."

Da frowned in concentration and rubbed his bottom lip with his middle finger, something Murphy did all the time. It gave Connor an odd sense of loss, something he was no longer part of.

"Per'aps that's the technical term," he said finally. "I'm not good at those sorts o' things. And it was a while ago…"

~~~  
Patrick's dreams could no longer be kept at bay with the drugs. His last conversation with the doctors had shredded that flimsy veil of protection he had counted on.

He woke up suddenly, heart pounding, breath choking in his throat, with William's screams echoing in his mind, at counterpoint with the screams of a tiny child. He shut his eyes tightly, willing that blood-covered, accusing face from his mind's eye.

As his heartbeat finally slowed, he opened his eyes and realized that Janet sat next to his hospital bed. They stared at each other silently for long moments.

"Ye look like shite," Janet finally said.

"Oh aye?" Patrick replied, looking at her sallow skin, the dark circles under her eyes, and the golden hair turned to straw. "Well, you don't look like Miss America yerself."

"I s'pose not, since I mostly feel like Miss Cowpat."

Patrick grunted. "Tell me about my wee boys, then. Are they doin' well?"

He feared for a moment, watching Janet's eyes suddenly well up and spill over with tears. "Oh Patrick! They are so beautiful!" She pulled a handkerchief from her bed gown sleeve and wiped her eyes. "Pardon. I weep for no good reason lately."

Patrick reached over and clasped her wrist. "Ye have every reason to weep, my love. For good and ill."

As he thought it would, the floodgates opened and Janet wept without pause until a nurse came to help calm her.

"Did the doctors tell you about-about wee Connor?" she asked, finally able to speak.

"Aye," he answered roughly, turning his head away. He was still uncertain how he felt about what he'd been told. Janet pressed the soggy handkerchief against her mouth to stifle any more sobs.

The doctors had been confused, assuming that the tiny preemie would have either his mother's or his father's blood type. But he'd had neither. Luckily, they'd not assumed to the point of actually giving the child the wrong blood. But it had been a close call, and the child had hovered between life and death for several hours.

The other twin had screamed ceaselessly until one of the older nurses put him in the isolette with his brother. The screaming stopped immediately and the other had improved dramatically within the half hour.

"Connor's a wee miracle, the doctors say. He's a strong fighter. But…but I think Murphy is what's kept him from giving up. They love each other so already! You should see them, Patrick. How they hold onto each other when they sleep and cry when they're separated."

Patrick heard her words, but a sudden wave of guilt made them meaningless. Guilt at William's death, at Connor's existence, at Janet's loss of any future children. He kept his face turned away; unable to face what he feared would be an accusatory stare.

"Patrick…?" Janet said, gripping his hand and nearly in tears again. "My love, please. You know he's all we have left of William."

"Aye," Patrick said. "But will he end up being a gift, or punishment for our sins, Janet? Because the child has already given ye more than enough grief."

Janet looked at him, horrified. "Every child is a blessing, Patrick. And I'll not-not be able to give ye any more!" With this declaration, she broke down again.

"Aye, a blessing," Patrick echoed, thinking of his own mother's words: "The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree."

~~~

"I had a hard time of it at first, accepting that you were William's son and not my own. Until your Ma first put ye in my arms."

Connor could not have torn his gaze away from the older man's face if someone had put a gun to his head. A tender smile stretched Da's lips as he gazed fondly at Connor.

"So tiny ye were, almost lost in the swaddling. But ye looked up at me with William's fierce blue eyes, and grabbed my little finger in a terrible strong grip like ye were tellin' me that you were my son as well, no doubt about it, whether I liked it or no."

Connor stopped breathing when the older man reached out and caressed the side of his face. "So much like him, ye are," he whispered. "And I'm glad of it." Connor crumpled and Da pressed Connor's face against his shoulder.

"Weep, my son. Mourn him, as I have," Da crooned, caressing his hair. "For your father was a good man, all in all, though he was a madman as well."

~~~


	5. Chapter 5

Connor's earliest memories were of the smell and feel of the damp black earth in Ma's vegetable garden, where she grew carrots, turnips, leeks and peas. She would let the boys "help" her there, with their own wee spades and watering cans, teaching them which were the nasty weeds they could pull out and which were the sacred plants.

This particular summer's day was warm and Ma let them go about starkers, to give them an "airing out" as she called it. Most likely it was to save herself in washing a few less nappies. So Connor had been sitting with his bare bum in the warm loam, digging just for the sheer joy of watching the dirt fly as he tossed it, when he dug up a giant earthworm. He'd seen them before, and Ma had said they were good and fed the plants and not to smash them. He picked up the wriggly thing gingerly, watching it for a bit, before getting up to show him.

Connor never thought of Murphy by his given name, not until he was much older. It would have been like calling his right hand George or something. He also knew where he was at any given moment, even if out of view, like he knew at all times where all his limbs were, even if he couldn't see them. So Connor walked over to Murphy, who was standing against the back wall, staring intently down at something.

"Look!" Connor squealed, holding out the earthworm. Murphy looked up but was not too interested. Instead his eyes went back to his hand and told Connor to "Look."

Connor looked. But all Murphy was doing was holding his "doggie."

"Wee?" Connor asked. They'd been fascinated recently with the acts of pissing and moving bowels, watching each other endlessly. Murphy nodded but he let go of his "doggie" and it stayed sticking up. Connor giggled.

"Fat doggie," Murphy stated, amazed.

"Mine!" Connor yelled. He pulled on Murphy's doggie and it bounced. He broke into peals of laughter. Murphy grinned.

"Again!" Murphy yelled and Connor did it again and again until Murphy got red in the face and sat down abruptly, panting. He pointed at Connor.

"Fat doggie," Murphy said. Connor looked down at himself and laughed with joy.

~~~

Connor lay awake on top of the bedspread, feeling cold wearing only a tee and boxers, but not wanting to get under the covers. He watched the shivering shadows on the ceiling, cast by the trees outside the window. Dawn would come soon, the pre-dawn breeze rattling the branches.

He'd not slept a wink all night, the conversation from the evening continually playing in his head. It seemed to Connor his whole world had been turned upside down; everything he'd thought himself to be was false. His emotions warred with themselves; he felt both pity and compassion for his mother's lot, yet blazing fury at her deception. And while a lot of questions seemed to have been answered, they had created more havoc, not the peace he had hoped for.

"Why d'ye look so different, then, if y're twins, eh? More likely yer Ma found ye both in a rubbish tip 'cause yer real mams didn't want ye!"

Connor smiled grimly. He and his brother, only six, had beat Tommy Ryan bloody for saying that. But the accusation had grated. He and Murphy never really discussed it, but the fact that they looked so different, not only for twins, but for brothers as well, did make them wonder. They searched each other silently for similarities that day after their bath and had only found one: on both of them, the tops of their right ears were slightly crumpled, just like Ma's. When they asked her about their birth at supper, she'd turned sour and told them tersely, "It was terrible and I'd rather not think about it, thank ye very much." It had given them both a sharp pang of guilt.

Murphy. Connor felt another pang of guilt.

He sighed. Was he doing the same to Murphy what Ma had done to them both? Was he protecting Murphy, or himself?

More questions assailed him. Did Ma perhaps consider Connor's parentage immaterial? How would he have dealt with the knowledge as a child? How would it have affected his relationship with Murphy? How would he have seen his own mother? Now, as an adult, he could understand her and Da's relationship with William, and not accuse her of adultery or worse. But as a child? If there had been whispers about her, he and Murphy would have heard. But there had been nothing.

Perhaps… perhaps after so long, it was just difficult to let go of such a secret. Connor was sure it was the secrets and pain of loss burning in her heart that caused Ma to turn to whisky to numb the pain.

Connor rubbed his face and half laughed, half sobbed. If the whisky hadn't all been drunk at dinner, he certainly would have been tempted to use it for the same reason, because the hot milk hadn't done squat. But he and Murphy had made a pact, long ago, to use words, and fists if necessary, to fix their problems, not the drink that had ruined their Ma. But he couldn't talk to Murphy, and he didn't think that trouncing Da would be very wise.

So caught up in his whirling thoughts, he didn't notice the door to the bedroom open until he heard Murphy's voice.

"Connor?"

He lifted up his head in surprise. "Aye?"

Murphy got on the bed, throwing an arm and a leg over him. "Why'd ye leave me, man? You know I hate waking up in a strange place without ye."

"I've been restless and didn't want to disturb you."

"Retard. You wake me anyway with your fucken snoring," Murphy said, without heat. "Besides, I know how you like this poncy little girl's room," he teased.

Connor snorted and waved a hand around. "Right. You know how I love ruffles and ribbons and ballerina teddy bears."

"I had that bloody dream again," Murphy said without preamble.

Connor felt Murphy shiver against him and he tightened his arms around his twin.

"Well, it was a dream, brother. I'll not leave you, ever."

"I haven't had one in years," Murphy whispered, breath warm and ticklish against his jaw. "But now I know why I have them, Conn."

Connor said nothing, waiting for Murphy to tell him or not.

"I've had them as long as I can remember…even before I could speak. And now I know it's because it's true. It really happened. From the moment of my first breath of this world, you were taken from me."

Murphy was almost in tears and Connor didn't know what to do. "Murph. Brother. I'm here now and I'm not leavin' and no one's takin' me away…" he whispered, holding him tight and rubbing his back.

"Just…fucken Christ, Connor, just hold me," Murphy whimpered. Connor gripped Murphy as hard as he could, hoping it would help keep at bay the demons that assailed his brother. Connor, in that moment, knew that he would not add to his brother's insecurities by telling him that they were, by blood, only half-brothers.

"I'll not leave you, Murph," Connor whispered again, and kissed the shell of his ear.

Murphy trembled and gasped. "I know, man, you won't leave me voluntarily. But a bullet will take ye away from me easily." Murphy sank his teeth into Connor's shoulder, making him grunt in pain. "I'm a coward, Conn. A fucken coward."

"You are not!" Connor hissed, gripping him violently by the hair.

"Yes I am. I pray every night that if God takes one of us, let it be me, because I couldn't live without ya," Murphy croaked.

Connor flashed back to being cuffed to a toilet, his blood freezing in terror at the look in Murphy's eyes.

Fucker, Connor thought, his eyes prickling. He returned Murphy's love bite, but to the side of his neck where he couldn't hide it. Murphy squirmed in his grip, but was silent.

"God brought us into this world together, and He will take us out together," Connor panted, his conviction unshakeable. "Even if we have to help Him do it…"

Murphy yanked up Connor's shirt and scraped his nails hard against his twin's ribs. Connor squirmed and pulled his brother's hands away. "Fuck, Murph. Not here, man."

"What?" Murphy asked, already in a fever of lust.

"Not in the wee girl's room!"

Murphy looked around as if in surprise. "What, the teddies wearing tutus putting ya off?"

"Aye, for sure," Connor answered, pushing Murphy roughly onto the floor. He got off the pink and white bedspread and pulled down his tee shirt. "And not in the house. Da will surely hear ya."

~~~

"We're not driving anywhere…" Murphy said, half in question, half in admonishment, as Connor took the car keys from the hook on the wall and opened the door to the garage.

"No, not driving. The car," Connor said cryptically, a smirk on his face. He pressed the remote and the alarm chirped on the big, black Mercedes. He opened the back passenger door and slid onto the wide leather seat. Murphy hesitated a moment and then followed, shutting the door behind him.

Connor grinned and pulled off his tee shirt. "You can make all the noise you want now. No one will hear."

Murphy whooped with laugher. "You're a fucken pervert, you know that?"

"You always yell like yer bein' fucken murdered."

Murphy wrapped his arms around his brother. "It's because…because I can't believe you still want me. When you touch me, I lose my mind," he said shyly, looking at Connor from beneath his lashes.

"Still want you? Are y'insane?" Connor pulled back and stared at him, perplexed.

"Connor, ya fucken retard, you could have anyone you want. You know that, don't ya? Man or woman, they follow you around like…" Murphy laughed, remembering Da's description of William, "like love-sick cows. That you've said yes to me, ever, is…astounding to me. So I fucken shout with the joy of it."

Connor was rendered speechless, gazing at his brother in shock. He cupped Murphy's face with both hands and looked intently at the cherished features that he'd been blessed to watch transform from the indistinct, rounded shapes of childhood, to the sharper, beautiful contours of manhood.

"How could I not…ever…want ya?" Connor finally asked. "All my life…from the beginning of my life I've wanted ya. You are beautiful to me."

Murphy's eyes welled with tears. "Fucker," he whispered.

 

~FIN~


End file.
